the colour of impatience.

henna & sun filled memories

I can’t remember the last time I have had henna stain my hands in this sun orange colour. The colour of impatience, because for henna to darken, to become sawda, it needs time. You wait until the henna dries, and cracks like dry earth.*

The coolness of the henna, and the scent.

Indescribable, but it’s the scent of home.

Of long,

sun filled afternoons,

the reprieve of home,

the sound of incense burning, the only thing you can hear,

the idle chatter of women talking, slowly quieting,

as the stretch of the henna drying, stretches in tandem with the sun filled afternoon.

I remember my younger self, wanting to join my grandma in the henna endeavour, wanting to do everything she did, have my feet mimic her own, so that when I walked, someone would notice and smile.

and so my small feet were covered. No sooner than the henna was applied, my patience, or, more fairly, lack thereof, slipped. My Omi Nour smiled knowingly. She must’ve dozed off at some point, and I tiptoed out, the feeling of henna underneath my feet squishing on the hot stone tiles, until I reached the tap and washed it all off.

I can’t remember the last time I have had henna stain my hands in this sun orange colour. The colour of impatience, and Omi Nour’s knowing smile.

*the way henna dries, reminds me of the cracked earth by the mountains.